"The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art." -George Bernard Shaw
I have a fondness for difficulty. It might come from living in Minnesota (where the weather is perpetually challenging) or it might be a natural flaw in my character. But for all my life I’ve never felt that much is worth doing unless it’s a struggle for me to accomplish it. I’ll run twice as fast to get it done if someone tells me I can’t do it.
This might be why I married a man who is very different from me (an early riser who folds military corners when he makes the bed and only two pairs of shoes). It might also be why I gave birth both times without medication (in retrospect, I could have pondered that choice longer).
It’s definitely why I am raising kids while trying to maintain an art-making habit. My most recent difficulty comes from trying to create art with a newborn in the house. The first year of a baby’s life is the most time-intensive for parents. Late-night feedings, frequent diaper changes, random naps and bouts of wailing (from both the baby AND parents). It’s just a fact of life that most of this falls on me as I’m the primary food-source during this time. So my studio sits empty and hopeful while I’m nursing the baby and ignoring the amount of laundry piling up.
It’s definitely why I am raising kids while trying to maintain an art-making habit. My most recent difficulty comes from trying to create art with a newborn in the house. The first year of a baby’s life is the most time-intensive for parents. Late-night feedings, frequent diaper changes, random naps and bouts of wailing (from both the baby AND parents). It’s just a fact of life that most of this falls on me as I’m the primary food-source during this time. So my studio sits empty and hopeful while I’m nursing the baby and ignoring the amount of laundry piling up.
I’m not complaining. As I said, I enjoy difficulty. The enjoyment comes from this: even ten minutes with a sketchbook feels like a sweet indulgence so I treasure it. Sure, I don’t have hours to pour into a painting but I am thinking about art, about how I’m going to change my palette when I get back to my easel, observing the colors in the shadows falling across my baby’s sleeping head. This is a time of introspection while I fold socks and restock the baby wipes.
I am not so preoccupied with Art that I forget to indulge in tickling tiny toes and playing peek-a-boo. A blank canvas is patient in a way that babies are not. I know that Art will forgive my absence as long as I promise to go back to it as soon as my time is more flexible.
In the meantime, I actually manage to sketch when I have a minute or two with a pencil in my hand:
I am not so preoccupied with Art that I forget to indulge in tickling tiny toes and playing peek-a-boo. A blank canvas is patient in a way that babies are not. I know that Art will forgive my absence as long as I promise to go back to it as soon as my time is more flexible.
In the meantime, I actually manage to sketch when I have a minute or two with a pencil in my hand:
